Poetry ARIANROHD (Welsh moon; goddess of the Celts)

You open for mebefore the nightly mist of my sensitivity. A harvest that is full, a half with a pull. Your hollows I barely see with a naked eye, your eye barely sees my naked hollows.

Bare and quiet, you seem somber and sleep during my days made full with work, made empty with questions.

I want to sleep with you but the stars already do.

I will see you when my night becomes your day, and your labor becomes my sleep.

Gladly, you touch tired soils of a burdened earth yearning to be set free from the myth of man and the scythe of war.

You tolerate another night of sky for me, and at daybreak your narrow escape goes unnoticed. You will return to me another night to play in our own daylight. At that moment, you make the ocean shine or the ocean shines for you.

I walk at the seaside to see you, and you to see me.

With your laurels I await Christmas morning joy, that pang in my heart, like any other season with or without you.

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